mozzafiato ➝ peaky blinders

uno

changretta residence, new york city
december, 1925

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It was cold in New York. 

The wind rustled trees, biting into any exposed skin, spreading the widespread discomfort that was familiar of this time of year. Some houses were plunged into sub-zero temperatures, pipes freezing and heaters malfunctioning. It wasn't a good time of year to be poor.

But, being in the mobster business had it perks: a good reputation, some good kicks, and even better money, earned, won or stolen. Hundreds had been spent on making the Changretta mansion resilient against the cold. Every room was equipped with a stone fireplace, lamps burned at every corner, the stove was always cooking something delicious - they remained just as comfortable as they were all year around.

Gianna Changretta was sat in front of her own fireplace in her bedroom at that moment, warming her feet as she leaned against the foot of her bed. In one hand, she held a slim novel, and in the other, a Lucky Strike. She cleared her throat, and turned the page with a sharp rustle, raising her cigarette to her lips. 

She made sure to exhale in the direction of the half-open window; she didn't want the smell of nicotine to linger in her room. If anyone was to smell that musty scent in her room, she didn't doubt they would throw her stash in a river.

Still, her whole family was out. They had decided a certain mission had been too much for a nineteen-year-old to take part in, and had left her at home. Audrey, her grandmother, was teaching late in the city. 

And, her father was in prison. He hadn't been home for almost sixteen months.

So, there was no-one to stop her. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Gia turned the page of her book. It was This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald. She had been reading it for what felt like hours with no trouble, but the moment the thought of her father had entered her head, her concentration had swayed.

For a moment, she tried to keep reading, but she found herself reading the same line over and over. 

Eventually, she gave in, and twisted around to set the book down on her bed, standing up with a grunt. Then, she moved to the window, and took a long drag of her cigarette, letting a stream of smoke flow from her lips into the cool, dark air. She shivered a little, and tugged her pale silk robe tighter around her. 

She tried to pretend she didn't, but she did miss her father, despite everything. 

She often wondered what she would have done, had she had her way. Would she have relieved his charges? Would she have made sure his sentence was as prolonged as the law allowed?

But, there were many things she couldn't do. She couldn't bribe judges, nor pass sentences. She couldn't turn back time.

And she couldn't control the actions of her father. Hell, no-one could.

Her eyebrows drew together as she took another drag.

She had witnessed her father do far worse things than what he had been imprisoned for, things which he had somehow gotten away with. Plus, the family had the coppers wound around their little fingers, looking the other way when faced with any amount of their crimes. They could get away with murder.